


Despair Wears Your Face (and Knows Your Name)

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Depersonalization, Disassociation, M/M, Suicidal Ideation, Taxes, bodies, graphic description of death, necrophilia (very light), the mundane processes following the aftermath of a death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:25:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The man in Credence’s basement is everything Credence could want: handsome, charming, intelligent, kind. Too bad he’s also a corpse.[Credence investigates the death of a John Doe in his small town, trying to find out who he is, why he died, and most importantly, why he doesn’t seem to be rotting.]





	1. The Man of the Waters

The air is chokingly thick.

He draws breath, as best he can, through the smothering pillow of damp. It’s laced with the scent of warm, wet concrete and reminds him that his path home will be strewn with the bodies of earthworms. He holds his bag like a shield above himself as he sprints down the walkway and pushes through the door.

“Wet day, isn’t it?” the security guard asks by way of greeting. The shock of air conditioning makes Credence shiver.

A lone drop makes its way down his shirt collar and he resists the urge to shake like a wet dog. He has to stare at something so he stares at the floor. Passerby have tracked a mess of water across the tile, their scruff-marks a crazed pattern. It reminds him of the sort of things you’d see in old movies, the steps to a fancy sort of foxtrot.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Wet day. Good evening, Mr. Kowalski.” Credence begins to walk towards the morgue.

“You know you can call me Jacob, right?” Mr. Kowalski calls after him. “Left some cookies for you in the break room!”

Credence’s voice catches in his throat so he just pretends he’s hard of hearing. He’ll write a thank you note later. He _will_ remember to do it.

The only thing that breaks the silence of the hallway is the sound of his footsteps and his own too-loud breathing.

He glances at the sign-in sheet hanging outside the door. Mr. Flamel has left early, according to the sticky note haphazardly pasted to it. Even now, they’re still low tech. Mr. Flamel is an elected official and kind of getting on in years. Credence imagines that’s why he leaves the paperwork to Credence. A small town like Hellsbore, maybe 1500 people, never has any autopsy-worthy deaths. The most outré thing he can hope for is the occasional fatal hunting accident.

The intake today: Mrs. Hutchins, whose daughter owns the decrepit furniture shop and some tramp they found off the highway.

The second is automatically more interesting. A new face, a body probably rife with health problems. It’s probably worth checking to see if the death is drug-related so the cadaver can be sent to a real medical examiner’s. There’s a little—not a spark per se—but a little blip of some sort of emotion when he thinks about it. Maybe he can get some practice in. He has a degree after all, even if it’s only from a community college.

It’s chill here, like a server room. He’s grateful for it. Another reason for other people to avoid it.

The sheriff’s office only keeps a skeleton crew this late at night and it’s sheer relief. It’s safe here. It’s a job that nobody wants.

Plus he has his own key.

Credence sits down at his desk, noting that Mr. Flamel has left the tramp on the examination table, covered, but unrefrigerated. He’ll think about that later, he decides. He really does have things to look at, things he’s been putting off. He pulls a folder from his messenger bag.

It’s been three months.

Three months since he found Ma slumped over in the living room, eyes open but unseeing. Three months since she lay on that table over there. He’d watched them sign the death certificate.

And now he has property taxes to pay.

Things are just like that sometimes.

This tramp is so lucky, Credence thinks. He probably doesn’t have any bills for his family to pay. They probably gave up on him ages ago. He’ll just disappear into their records and an unmarked grave, a number on a file in the back of a dusty cabinet.

Sometimes Credence wishes…

But that’s pointless to think about. He still hasn’t figured out what it means to sell a business, or at the very least, a building that used to be a business. He supposes someone must want a funeral home. It’s not like dying is going out of style.

Hunger gnaws at his insides, but he just can’t seem to eat nowadays. He doesn’t understand why. It’s just that everything in Ma’s house just makes him feel sick all over, he reasons.

Even now he keeps checking his phone out of habit, half expecting a slew of texts. He wonders if he even needs a phone now. It’s not like he has any other number but hers.

His phone is empty.

His stomach is empty.

The house is empty.

There’s no one. This room, the funeral home, his house: the same number of people alive in each.

It’s just him. The vastness of eternity stretches before him. Maybe if he could just sleep. He shifts in his seat, and his back aches. Those bruises on his back were the last ones she would ever give him, and now that they’ve faded there’s nothing.

There’s only him.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair again and puts aside the stack of bills and calculations he’s drawn out. He can’t focus on this, but maybe he can work. There’s always plenty of work, even if he has to invent it himself.

Credence breathes out and stands. He needs to process the newest arrival, the John Doe. Mr. Nobody, he thinks to himself. Or maybe—he lets himself be playful—maybe Captain Nemo.

He draws the sheet up.

Pretty standard. The marks of long-term homelessness are upon him, the punishing tan, the hanging skin, the grime that just can’t seem to wash away.

Captain Nemo is tucked up in a sleeping position, limbs rigid with rigor mortis, eyes slightly open, mouth agape. Despite the milky, clouded appearance, Credence can tell the eyes were once brown. The hands, he notes, are clenched.

The smell wafts up and Credence’s nose wrinkles. Urine and feces, and alcohol, but no decay. Not yet.

A handsome man, he thinks, surprised. At least, beneath the grey-streaked beard and grim, unruly hair. He might have been handsome, Credence thinks, in life. The jaw is familiar, but he just can’t quite place it. The brows are heavy and dark, the two moles on his cheek a kind of semicolon.

Like a semicolon. The thought rustles in his brain, pinging around, echoing like dress shoes on linoleum.

There’s no identification in the man’s personal effects. Of course not. He glances over the notes. Some change, an ancient card for a local A.A. meeting. Some sort of pocketbook, maybe a journal, somewhat water-damaged. A little young, Credence thinks, for cirrhosis. Not impossible but…

He frowns. Mr. Flamel has him marked as perhaps in his 60s, but that’s definitely wrong. Right? He looks over the man’s face, and it swims before him.

He’s just tired, Credence decides. His head aches and saliva is pooling in his mouth. He should eat something, if only to keep himself from dry-heaving. He’ll put Captain Nemo back in the fridge for a bit, he tells himself. He slides him as best as he can back into the drawer and makes sure to leave the paperwork hanging from the hook. No one will be down to check, but he’s a stickler for procedure.

He stumbles out into the hallway and into the bathroom.

He washes his hands.

He washes his hands.

He washes his hands.

The scars are totally healed, thin white slashes on his palms and fingers. He used to be paranoid about prion disease, back when they were open regularly. He doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. Unless he decides to lick his fingers.

Dead bodies are actually fairly disease-free of course. He knows this. Viruses want a live host. He always imagines the bacteria living in the intestines, realizing that everything around them is dying, that walls of decaying flesh are closing in and in desperation eating their way out to the surface.

He assumes his own intestinal bacteria feel pretty much like that right now, or they would if they could feel.

The cookies that Jacob have brought have cooled down. At one point they were gooey and delicious; he knows because the chocolate has melted all over the saran wrap. He lifts one free.

There’s just a bit of chew, a slight graininess from the brown sugar, more brownie than cake.

It’s heavenly.

He eats the cookie carefully, hoping it won’t make his stomach twist itself into knots. And then he eats another.

He glances over the file again. He’s sure there’s a mistake, but it doesn’t really matter. They don’t care what happens to this man. Nobody does. 

They’re alike that way, he muses. Mr Flamel will do his official report, and say the man died of exposure, to heat and chill and rain, and then he’ll disappear into some pauper’s grave. He ruminates on this. No one will go to his funeral.

Even he was at Ma’s funeral. Various people made their excuses, but he was there. He understood, of course. If he’d had a choice, he wouldn’t have shown up either, but he didn’t, and so he had. It was a simple as that. 

He should, Credence thinks, look his best. Captain Nemo should at least show someone, show Credence, what he was, what he could have been. That he was a mother’s son, that he had lived.

If he’s honest, he knows that it's a bit weird. Something whispers that it’s something the neighbors will talk about, and he feels a phantom ache in his arm. No one has to know. The body will be gone tomorrow. It’s the last day that anyone will ever look at him.

It’s a nice gesture, he thinks to himself as he pulls his shaving kit from under the sink in the corner. He’d slept here before, when Ma had been really bad. There’s a sponge and a packet of wet wipes. Couldn’t hurt to clean him. It’s not like he’s removing evidence anyway. 

There’s a strange feeling in his stomach as he approaches the body for the second time. A little tingling of guilt, half-laughing delight in breaking the rules. 

It’s a bit of a struggle to get Captain Nemo on his back, but he does. The eyes stare past him, which is fine, and he finally, finally places a gloved hand on his cheek. It shouldn’t close; the muscles are still stretched, it’ll be another day or so before they’ve decayed enough to be bendable. And yet it does. 

It does. There’s resistance, but not nearly as much as there should be. It makes Credence pause. Perhaps the time of death is wrong? He contemplates… and then attempts to pull the raised arms down. They do go down, bending stiffly until they’re at his sides. His own heart is pounding. Perhaps… perhaps this man is alive? But he can’t be, couldn’t possibly. 

The blood has already settled into its characteristic pattern, sinking to the bottom of the body to where it looks dark, a shadow of where he lay. He breathes heavily. People don’t just go into deathlike comas. They have tests for that sort of thing. Tests like the one he’s about to do now.

He takes the razor and gently, carefully, nicks a small spot on the neck. 

It does not bleed, and that’s all he needs to know. 

Credence can’t help but laugh at himself. What is he doing really? He’s on edge for no reason. There’s probably something a little weird with the timeline, but that has nothing to do with him.

He reminds himself of how it is to shave the recently passed. It’s a bit of an art, a bit of a skill. Credence is grateful that he has scissors to cut the beard closer. The skin is a little slack, he notes as he lathers up the Captain’s face. He’ll have to shave with the grain, or else risk slicing his cheeks open. It’s not like he has to worry about 5 o’clock shadow anyway. 

It’s a slow, careful movement of the blade across skin. He takes his time, especially on the neck, the underside of the jaw. He leaves just a little sideburn, just enough to show off the sharpness of cheekbones.

Credence wonders if the Captain has ever had a shave like this. He wets the unruly hair and combs through it. It’s perhaps too much for a shampoo, but he can at least remove the pieces of leaves and sticks. Did he ever get affection like this while he was alive? Did a doting mother do this same thing, once upon a time?

He takes his own brush and rinses it under the sink. He doesn't have anything to ease the tangles, so water will have to do. 

It’s almost effective. Combed back behind the ears, the man almost looks like a gentleman. More handsome than ever, face shaped by a widow’s peak, and instead of greasy it looks distinguished. His fingers trace the shape of the thin mouth, the pronounced cupid’s bow, the stern jaw. 

He wipes down the face and neck, as much of the body as feels appropriate. Credence usually does not dwell on this part. Usually there’s nothing to dwell on. The muscles are surprisingly lean, the fat only serving to soften out the contour of it. Strange, spiral-like burns creep up the edges of the torso. Or are they birthmarks? They aren’t on the chart but the injuries look fairly old, he thinks. Despite these, It actually looks quite healthy, which doesn’t tally with what he knows, or at least, with what he understands.

“It doesn’t make _sense,_ ” he says aloud, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t. His voice is shaky and weak, and it reminds him that he is very much alone here.

For some reason, he doesn’t very much feel like being alone right now.

He exhales, and wipes off the remaining shaving cream and hair. And just like that, a completely different person is in front of him. A sturdy, serious man, early middle-age, and with a start, he notices that the clenched hands hide carefully cut nails.

Who the hell was this guy?

The mouth falls open.

And the razor clatters to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has some edits


	2. Underneath...

Credence’s heart lives in his mouth for a few moments before he relaxes. He’s fine. Of course he’s fine. Dead bodies are just that, dead. They’re inanimate objects. Floppy, inanimate objects. 

He breathes.

He breathes.

Credence picks up the razor and rinses it in the sink. 

And then he carefully closes the body back in the drawers. He’s fooled around long enough. He’s getting paid, isn’t he? He should at least attempt to do his job.

Credence glances at the clock. It’s nearly midnight.

He does his daily responsibilities. Filling out paperwork. Putting in requests for proof of guardianship. Legal mumbo-jumbo that Mr Flamel is perhaps too important to deal with. His back is aching by the time he decides that it’s enough. He stands and stretches.

Credence has left something undone though. The tramp’s file is still sitting on the counter, untouched. 

Perhaps it can wait until tomorrow night. It shouldn’t make a difference to the Captain over there. He wants, somehow, to do something. It’s weird that a stranger has this hold over him. 

The meagre possessions should rightfully be tossed into the garbage. They should.

But…

They can also come home with him. Why not? If, and it’s unlikely, someone comes to claim them, Credence can just miraculously find that they’d been misfiled. 

With that, he makes his way to the storage cabinet, takes out the ziplock bag and nonchalantly tosses it in his messenger bag. He doesn't even look at it.

It sits, buried beneath various folders and books, at the bottom of his bag on the drive home. It sits the way the two cookies sit in the bottom of his stomach, leaden, a knot. 

He has that feeling again, the shameful burn of having done something wrong. The car is Ma’s, or was Ma’s. It’s definitely his now. A sturdy truck, (because if he has to drive the hearse around he really will kill himself) but it still has a sort of smell to it.

He pretends he doesn’t know it's her perfume. 

The frogs and crickets seem to be trying to out-scream each other as he steps out into the driveway. He hates it. He hates the heat, and the damp, and the constant hum of crawling things existing in the outside around him. 

His mind is buzzing in tune. It’s a static that seems to fall upon him at inopportune times, a white noise, a fog. The knot in his stomach becomes a hole that falls down through the ground and drags the rest of his body with it. His lips are numb. Someone else looks out through his eyes, something else unlocks the door using his suddenly heavy limbs.

The hallway is cool. The air conditioning runs full blast. The ugly paisley on green-wallpaper stares back at him with hundreds of distorted eyes. 

_Who would make a house into a funeral home?_ he asks from deep within his brain. His tongue is too big for his mouth. He wishes he could just lie down on the cool floor and dissolve. Next to him, something moves and the shock jerks him awake more than anything else. It’s only a mirror, but it’s something, something to look at.

He glances in the mirror. Not too ornate, not gaudy, but just enough to make the waiting room not seem like the cramped unwelcoming place that it is. He looks pale, pinched, tired. He remembers the day Ma put this mirror here. 

_“We’re happy to have so many of you here tonight.” The mayor’s voice booms over the loudspeakers._

_Credence’s body is made of stone. His shoes are too tight. The mayor claps him on the back and he chokes on his own spit. Next to him Ma is nodding with appreciation, and it's only when she pinches his arm that he realizes that he should be saying something._

_“We’re happy to contribute,” he says almost too softly to be heard. The mayor’s secretary smiles and nods. His mother is standing slightly behind him, just enough that no one can see how her bony fingers dig into the flesh of his arm. With trembling hands he reaches into his pocket to pull out a check book and the pain relaxes. He hands the check to the woman and then they disappear into the crowd._

_He knows that people find them both off-putting. They scoot out of her way, barely grasp her clammy hands, half-wondering if there’s any traces of the dead still left on her skin. She can put on a friendly face when she has to, but there’s a creepiness to her, and she’s passed that onto him, without their even sharing blood. Everyone draws away from them, the way dead skin draws away from fingernails._

_Why is he the only one left? He asks himself as he dutifully follows her around, greeting people as he’s instructed. Since she went to stay with her father Modesty’s letters are always short and to the point and it's been over a year since they’ve heard from Chastity. He’s kept track of every contact. He notes it on the calendar in his phone._

_He hopes they’re happy._

_They have to be._

_Credence is well acquainted with the pressure it takes to form a bruise, and sure enough, his arm blooms purple when he undresses for the evening._

His arm aches.

He thinks he still has Modesty’s number somewhere. He’s tempted to text her, but his hands are comically large and fumbling. His stomach grumbles.

Credence can do nothing but lay himself on the visitor’s couch. The rough fabric is raised in ornate flower patterns that grate at the skin; there’s no option but to lay on his back, his messenger bag grounding him with its weight. 

He stares at the ceiling, and realizes that cobwebs have gathered in a corner. Conflicting thoughts of _the realtors won’t like that_ and _I don't have to dust there anymore_ compete for priority in his mind, to be surpassed by the realization that he still has the personal effects bag to look through. 

He fishes it out, and lets his messenger bag slip to the ground. The weight of his body lessens, just slightly, as he looks at it. All of the Captain’s possessions, and it’s barely two pounds.

The diary is what calls his attention. It’s of a sturdy leather, brown and plain, tied together with leather straps. The pages are wrinkled and water-damaged but it does open. Obviously the pages are made of stronger stuff than just plain cheap paper. They separate readily enough; he can just make out the opening date, maybe 5 years back. His fingers trace the cover. It’s actually more well-kept than he expected. The writing is small, elegant and purple. A strange color for a diary, but maybe it’s a faded blue. 

Credence imagines Nemo writing in it, but he just can’t seem to conjure up the man he knows it’s from. The only image he can think of is elegant, to match the writing, to match the strong features he’d revealed with his razor. In his mind, strong, manicured hands clutch a beautiful fountain pen, detailing the events of the day in bullet points, precise dates. Perhaps it was from a previous moment, before his life had taken a downturn. Perhaps the man who wrote in this journal wore a silk tie, a well tailored suit, had important things to remember. 

It’s all speculation of course. The thought makes the guilt rise in his chest though. Perhaps they should put more effort into tracking down this man’s loved ones, if he still has any. 

Credence traces the cover with his fingertips. There’s a faint scratch on it, almost random. It’s out of place there, along the edge. It gives a little under pressure. Without thinking, he peels the leather away from the edge, and then stops because _fuck,_ he hadn’t meant to ruin it.

He tries to smooth it back but there’s a faint blue lining beneath it. He pauses. Is there something under there? Maybe he should leave well enough alone. Credence slips the journal back into the bag, and drops the bag on the floor. 

Actually, he thinks he could eat. A spoonful of peanut butter and a glass of milk are about all he can take, but the nausea eases. All the aches ease. It’s enough to actually perhaps let him sleep. 

The dishes he leaves in the sink, along with all the other dishes. He’ll wash them, he thinks, which reminds him that he also has to write a thank you note to Jacob. There are so many things he has to do later.

The second floor is where the actual bedrooms are, away from grieving family and the sickly smell of flowers. The decorations are more sparse, and the air conditioning is more finicky. Credence sheds his clothes one by one on the floor as he makes his way to his room. Ma’s room is the exact opposite side, with a shared bathroom in between. He used to share it with his sisters, but Ma took Chastity’s room when she left, and converted her old bedroom downstairs into an office. 

It’s as stark and cold as she could make it, a sharp contrast to the homely, welcoming look she tried to cultivate downstairs. His own bed is white, the sheets are white, the comforter white. The curtains are white. He supposed she chose it so she could check for suspicious stains. 

He stands at the top of the stairs, and then decides to head towards Ma’s room. She probably has a comfier bed, he reasons. No sense it wasting it. The ventilation is probably better too. 

He says all this to himself, but he’s unsure if he’s just making an excuse. He hasn’t been inside it since… well Ma never let him in her room. She cleaned it herself. Credence had to clean everything else of course, but she cleaned her room without any help from him.

He’s seen it before of course, but it’s still a little shock. The curtains are still white, but pretty, sheer, lacy. Her dresser is plain, but on it are a few porcelain angels, soft and smiling, next to a metal tree that holds her jewelry and that rests on a lacy doily. There are pictures on the walls, soft and impressionistic landscapes, Monet-inspired obviously. The effect is instantly calming.

And Credence’s heart gives a little ache. He picks up a pillow, and studies the muted flower pattern, holds it to his cheek.

The pillows are the softest thing he’s ever felt against his face. They’re edged with ruffles, as is the quilted blanket. He’s naked, except for his underwear, and so he hesitates.

She would be so upset. 

She might have spit in his face if she were here.

She’s not though.

She’s not.

Credence sinks luxuriously into bed, and pretends it’s his, and it’s always been his, and that it doesn’t smell faintly of perfume and stealthy cigarettes.

It’s so soft, infinitely yielding. It’s an embrace he could never have had from her or from anyone. He sinks into it, and relishes all the comfort he can squeeze out of it. 

Within minutes he's asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using the paragraph spacing somewhat on purpose.


	3. ... And Beneath

He dreams.

He knows it's a dream. 

He walks downstairs, and a cup of tea is waiting for him on the visitor's room's coffee table. It smells delicious, laced with spices. Before he can reach for it, the visitor picks it up. 

He hadn't noticed the visitor. The steam from the cup rises like a fog, obscuring the visitor's face as they drink from the delicate china. It's Ma's best, he realizes. It's the set she got from her grandmother. 

He sits down as well, in a chair though, not joining the visitor on the couch. 

"I'm sorry for your loss," Credence says. It's a phrase that comes naturally to him. The visitor nods behind the cloud of steam. 

"Please remember to also take care of yourself, " Credence continues, the well-practiced words sincere on his tongue. "I think, sometimes, we forget to do that when these things happen. It's like suffering with our body is easier than suffering with our hearts. But," he says kindly, "I'm sure your loved one would rather that you not take your grief out on yourself like that."

Credence offers a comforting hand, and the visitor takes it. 

It's cold.

Oddly, the visitor seems to be comforting Credence as much as he is comforting them. The thumb strokes the back of his hand. 

Credence, as tenderly as possible, takes the hand and kisses it. It's the thing to do. He kisses the knuckles first, then the prominent silver ring on the pinky. His breath fogs the surface and Credence apologizes.

The ring is warm against his mouth 

He kisses each fingertip. The hand, perhaps in gratitude, caresses his lips. Just one delicate brush.

Credence lets the hand go. 

He looks down at the body on the coffee table. There's a steaming teacup resting on it. The visitor is standing beside him in the morgue and Credence realizes that there was no face behind the steam. 

The corpse is flat on its back, mouth slightly open. Credence watches as the visitor takes the tea and tips it carefully into the open mouth. The steam rises from it.

Credence, just as carefully, bends over the corpse and steals its breath. It tastes like clove cigarettes.

The visitor hands him a straight razor. Credence remembers he doesn't have protective gear on but he knows he can always wash himself off in the chemical showers. 

He draws the knife from sternum to just below the navel. He has to open it of course, but the seam of the cut feels like a scratch on leather against his fingertips. He opens the binding. His insides are lined with blue silk. Credence reaches inside, finds something metal. A key? He can't quite make out the shape in his hand. He pulls it out and...

...opens his eyes.

He blinks a little, unsure of where he is. 

The room is bathed in early morning light. Blue-tinged, so just after six, he reasons.

That’s not bad, he thinks, 4 hours is more than he usually gets.

His bed is facing the wrong way. 

It’s not his bed. The jar of potpourri on the nightstand very clearly indicates that it’s not his bed. His heart pounds for a few moments and then he relaxes.

Ma’s bed. It’s comfier than he’d imagined when he was 8. He’d always assumed she slept like the Egyptians, on a stone pillow.

If he actually looks at it, this could maybe be an old fashioned little girl’s room. The only thing missing are the porcelain dolls.

It’s better today. He can tell right away. His body moves the way it’s supposed to, lets him sit up and slip his feet out and off the bed. 

He’ll take this bed with him when he moves, he’s decided. The thought of moving triggers the cascade of worries he keeps in the back of his mind: selling the home, having to go through lawyers, dealing with the state.

Ma seemed to have figured she would live forever. Wills and burial plans, passwords to bank accounts, that was all for someone else to deal with.

Probate court… God, he couldn’t research it enough.

He buries himself under the covers. Maybe he can just… just what? Get drunk? There's whiskey in the back of the pantry downstairs, but getting drunk won't change where he is. There is no place of refuge. Maybe someday, with his third of the money, he can get far away from here and never have to speak with anyone again.

It’s a pleasant thought, but it’s getting stuffy under the covers and he’s extremely thirsty.

Walking around in his underwear is, if he's honest, a little exciting. He's never had the opportunity before. Credence slides his hand on the wooden banister of the stairs, relieved as the chill air from the first floor begins to cool his body.

He chugs a glass of ice water first, and then makes a cup of tea. Chamomile with honey. Sugar has always been a rare treat and it still feels somewhat sacrilegious to even have it in the house.

There's nothing to disturb the silence save for the faint rumble of the air conditioning. Sitting at the kitchen table makes him restless; he walks around, passing from kitchen to dining room, from dining room to hallway. The door that marks the transition from private to public parts of the house is slightly ajar. Of course, the business is closed. No one is going to stop by for a chat. With a moment's hesitation, he enters the waiting room.

Everything is as he left it. His bag sits on the coffee table, half open. The ziplock with the effects is on the couch. 

The notebook has slipped down to the floor, splayed open face down. It occurs to Credence that it looks a bit like a murder victim, pages bent and opened, loose straps folded under and trailing like a discarded scarf.

It's a kind of joke, to himself, the only kind he knows how to make.

It's the kind of observation that makes sure he does not get invited to parties.

Credence sits down with that knowledge.

_God, I really am a freak_ , he thinks.

He sets his cup down and picks up the diary, straightening its pages as much as he can. Maybe there's some kind of software that can sharpen the images. There's no computer in the house, and he's only got his flip phone, which he isn't even sure can take photos. The library, perhaps? Or maybe the community college the next town over. He's not even sure where to begin.

He'll think it over in the shower, he decides.

As he prepares to put the journal back into the bag a flicker of memory prods at him. Blue silk. The sensation of shoving his hand inside… huh, he'd forgotten that bit. But it reminds him of the tear. He carefully traces the scratch again, and finds he can put just the edge of a nail in the fissure. 

It pulls open. 

The edges of the tear are clean, as though made with a scalpel, and underneath the leather is the same pattern of blue silk. A secret pocket? He thinks. His stomach twists with excitement and then uncoils in disappointment

In his heart, he was hoping for a treasure treasure map.

It's a picture.

It's a couple decades old (he can tell from the grain) and looks like maybe it was taken at a family gathering. There are about 10 people of all different ages, and 4 children, dancing. Each is dressed in flowing white clothing, dresses or jumpers, and wears a crown of flowers upon their head. At the very edge of the photo is a handsome, youngish man holding a little girl aloft. She and he seem to be having the time of their lives, oblivious to the camera. Credence notes that the young man has two birthmarks on his cheek, something that echoes a semicolon.

Credence turns the picture over, hoping for some kind of inscription.

In the same elegant handwriting it says, "Graves family, (Ostara 19XX)"

He has to take a few moments to process all of this.

First of all  _ Graves.  _ The Captain has a name, albeit a somewhat ominous one. Second of all he does have a family, somewhere, that perhaps Credence can help find.

He has no idea what Ostara is. Maybe it’s some sort of European tradition? The outfits look ceremonial but for the life of him he can’t think what they could be celebrating. 

Graves, he thinks.

He rolls the name over in his mind. 

It doesn’t seem particularly foreign. English? Irish? He has the sinking thought that this man might have come from overseas. How could he possibly find his family now?

Abruptly he tosses the book and bag aside on the coffee table. This is stupid, he thinks. This is weird and unnecessary and he should just deal with all the shit he’s putting off.

As he tosses the bag, something slips out of it, clattering to the floor and rolling under the couch.

Cursing, Credence gets to his knees so he can crouch down and peer into the shadows. At the very back there’s just a glint of light. Credence can reach, but he has to lie flat on the floor to do so. His fingers grasp something small, smooth and cold.

He pulls it out. In the back of his mind is a sense memory, the feel of smooth stone against his lips. In his hand is a man’s ring, silver, with an onyx stone set into it. 

Credence sits back on his heels. This had been in the inventory, right? He wracks his brain, trying to recall what he’d seen listed. There had been change, but a ring? Credence feels like he would have remembered that.

But it’s here, and it’s not like there’s any other way it could have gotten here. Is there? Credence turns it over in his hand, eagerly anticipating another inscription. Maybe a first initial? Unfortunately, there's nothing of note. The ring is plain silver, except for a bisected triangle inscribed with a circle on either side. He studies the pattern, hoping it's a stylized initial, but he gives up fairly quickly. Credence tries to pretend he's not disappointed. It's something, he supposes, or Graves would have pawned it, but whatever secret meanings it held have died with its owner.

He doesn't have a pocket to put it in, and yet, he's not quite ready to return it to the bag. After a moment's hesitation, he slips it onto his own finger. It's a size too large for his pinky, but it does actually fit his… well, his ring finger. Maybe it's an old wedding ring, he thinks. Kind of a weird style though.

It suits him, Credence thinks, surprised. He hadn't realized that he himself was a jewelry type of person. Perhaps it's because the opportunity has never presented itself until now. Maybe there are other parts of himself that he hasn't yet encountered. The thought is comforting enough to spur him into getting ready for the day. 

He keeps the ring on, partially because it looks neat and partly as a reminder that he has a duty to this man. A self assigned duty, but a duty nonetheless. He hopes that Captain Graves --- er, Mr. Graves, doesn't mind. 

Mr. Graves seems a bit formal, he thinks, once he's showered and dressed and walking to the car. Especially since Credence has already seen him-- Credence's mind struggles between the words  _ naked  _ and  _ dead. _ He eventually decides they're about the same in terms of intimacy. He certainly wouldn't want someone to see him dead.

The thought makes him realize that death might be the only time someone else will ever see him naked. Credence wonders idly if the med student who dissects his body will think he's cute, and then turns on the radio to avoid having to follow up on that line of thinking.

The wildflowers along the side of the road look like frozen fireworks, bursting in sprays of blue and red and yellow. He catches them out of the corner of his eye as he zooms past them. Families have gathered en masse to take photographs and Credence thinks he sees a few art students as well. 

Time slows down while he's driving. The families, the wildflowers, the students, and their parked cars all go by in a blur.

It's as though the world is rushing past him while he stands still.


	4. The Nautilus

She’d smiled at him. That was all it took.

He can still remember the missing tooth, slow to grow in. She was self-conscious about it, he’d thought, but she never showed it. It’s only later that he remembers how she covers her mouth when she laughs.

She was lightning in a bottle. Her smile was electric.

It wasn’t that she’d stood up for him. She was noble that way and would have stood up for anyone unfairly treated.

It was that she could lie so nonchalantly. A completely straight face. Not even a twitch. Her voice prettily detailing how those boys had been teasing her, and how Credence had nobly stepped in to defend her, and that was why they should be suspended, and how could they punish someone for being chivalrous?

Nevermind that nobody would dare mess with Nagini. She would bite and spit and claw: a cornered beast. And if she couldn’t wrestle you into submission, you’d suddenly find that books and homework had mysteriously left your backpack, your jacket filled with various foul-smelling fluids and news of your parents’ upcoming divorce had made its way around the school.

Nevermind that the other students had _seen_ how the other boys treated Credence, scenting weakness the way a lion might scent out a weak antelope, and that they knew very well that he’d dared fight back to defend himself.

Nevermind that the crack of the other boy’s nose rang out like a shotgun on the schoolground.

But adults just seemed to melt around her. She had that exact cadence, so precisely engineered to tug at adult sensibilities. Her outfit so neat, her hair so nicely brushed, her handwriting beautiful and perfect and _legible._

So they’d let it go. She’d saved him from a beating. If he’d had to hand that slip over to Ma…

He’d whispered a quiet, “thank you,” and she’d barely looked at him.

So she hadn’t, Credence thought, singled him out for any specific reason. But life was now much easier.

So very much easier. He had no friends, but, at the very least, he could eat his lunch in peace, when he had any.

And then one day, she’d strolled into the third-floor bathroom where he spent his lunch and carefully placed a wrapped sandwich in his hands, and then left. Another time it was a slice of pizza from the cafeteria. And again, and again. She confided to him later that she’d befriended the lunch lady with the foreign accent, and just always had extra food, so he might as well have it.

He wasn’t sure why she’d bothered at first. He knew for a fact that her lunchbag was packed with home-made delicacies and lovingly cut fruit. So he was startled when she asked if he would mind if she ate lunch with him. And of course, what could he say? That there was no lunch without her?

She chatted mostly, and he listened. She talked about things he hadn’t heard of. New movies. T.V. shows. Things to do and places to be. And she would smile that same bright snaggle-toothed smile she reserved for teachers. Or at least, he thought it was at first. But there was something a little different about the twist of her lips. Sometimes he wondered if it was just for him.

The last day of school, he’d gone, though many of the other children had skipped. The school was sparse, the teachers dreamily thinking of summer break and wheeling out the enormous TVs to show movies all day. He’d hoped that maybe—but he should have known she wouldn’t be there. She’d let slip to a teacher that she was moving in the summer; upstate somewhere. Her father had gotten a job. She hadn’t mentioned it to him in their lunchtime conversations and he’d supposed that, like him, she understood that her moving away was the same as her dying; they’d never see each other again.

Or she’d just forgotten him.

That was the more likely option.

He should have expected it.

They weren’t friends. She tolerated him. She’d hung out with him because she’d felt sorry for him. He wandered around the empty school-yard at lunch, head down and brooding.

“Yo!”

He’d looked up and there she was. Her bare legs shone in the sunshine; she was wearing shorts that were definitely not allowed in the dress code and a tank top with a picture of a smiling cat.

“Credence!” She’d sat there for a moment, precariously balanced on the top of the fence before lightly landing at his feet. After another moment’s hesitation she’d taken his hand and dragged him towards the fence.

“Come on!” she’d said. “You’re not going to spend the whole day at school by yourself are you?”

He’d followed in a daze, scrambling over the fence, chasing after her as she loped gracefully through brush and twisting paths in the nearby woods. She’d stopped suddenly and then pushed aside some branches to show a path between some bushes. She’d beckoned to him and then taken his hand again. He could hardly breathe, though from running or from excitement, he couldn’t have said.

There, in a little clearing, almost like a secret base, was a checkered picnic blanket, laid out carefully in the grass, with little snacks in plastic baggies, and a convenience store bag full of sweets he’d never even had a chance to try before.

The afternoon passed faster than any day had ever passed before. They talked, as usual, and eaten lunch, and drank the fancy lemon soda that came from Italy or Spain or someplace like that.

She’d held out a chocolate for him and pulled it away when he’d reached for it with his hand. And slowly, so very slowly, he’d bent his head and taken it with his lips. He’d thought his heart would burst.

He can still remember the heat of her hand, the texture of her palm against his mouth.

He hadn’t been able to look at her immediately after. He’d pretended, instead, that he was focused on the taste of the chocolate. When he’d finally gathered the nerve to look up, he found her staring at him. No, not staring. She was studying him, her brows furrowed slightly as if in doubt. She’d moved closer, as if to get a better look, and he, a deer frozen in headlights, could not move in any direction, even when her face was inches from his.

When he’d been younger, eating a piece of stolen hard candy, his cheeks aching from the tartness, from the sweetness, he’d thought _kisses must taste like this_. Like sour candy, achingly sweet and unbearable all at once.

They did not. Or rather, he hadn’t realized it would be so wet, that he’d be so aware of her teeth, of the smell of saliva and the hint of chocolate.

The first kiss had been better: that tentative press of lips against his, an electric snap, bright, pop of sensation that he couldn’t fully process.

The second… He’d never really thought about how the inside of someone’s mouth would feel, how a tongue would be slimy and bumpy at once. And yet it was its own kind of good, only surpassed by the feel of her weight as she crawled into his lap.

The warmth of her body… the weight of her body… the rush of her breath against his mouth.

Her heart beat against his the way a frightened bird might beat its wings against the bars of its cage.

It etched itself into his skin.

He wished it could last forever.

That night, he came home after the sun went down and earned the worst beating hither to. Ma had been lucky he’d just started summer vacation; there was no way he could have shown up to school the next day, not without raising suspicion.

At least she’d gone for his back. His hands had been free as he’d lain in bed, waiting to heal.

His hands touched the places she’d touched. He’d been careful, knowing Ma was downstairs, counting on the sound of her voice to let him know how close she was. As long as he could hear her, he was safe.

He could dream. He remembered the taste of chocolate, the heat of her body on his thighs, her breath on his lips. The tears he’d pretended not to see and taste when she’d kissed him goodbye.

There’s never been anyone else.

 _Oh god I’m so pathetic,_ Credence thinks.

The memories, as they always do, come back in a rush when he sees her. He doesn't recognize her at first; her hair is down, no longer in a cute childish ponytail, and she seems so much shorter than he remembers. She looks so… normal. Just a normal person on a community college campus, wearing normal adult clothes that a normal adult would wear. If he hadn’t recognized her, he wouldn’t have looked twice, except, maybe a half-glance because she is, as she always was, quite pretty.

She doesn’t see him; she’s glancing down at her phone. _Maybe meeting her boyfriend here?_ he thinks, and is then immediately ashamed. He starts quickly walking towards the library. He can’t talk to her. They don’t know each other. They have nothing in common. What would he even say?

Credence can just imagine it. Meeting again after all these years “Nagini!” he would say. “I know it’s been more than a decade since we’ve seen each other, but in that time, I’ve not only stayed in the same town, but also my closest friend is this dead body I just met less than 24 hours ago. To be fair, he’s the hottest piece of ass this town has seen in centuries. He’s really not so bad once you get over the smell!”

He can’t quite believe it’s her. His heart pounds in his chest. And it's stupid. It’s so fucking stupid. Hey remember when we were kids and made out in the woods? That was fun. Let’s do that again! That’s a good basis for a friendship right? He’s not even sure if he could even meet her eyes. How can he _look_ at her, knowing what he’s done, what he’s thought of while thinking of her? It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.

Credence almost trips over the steps as he dashes inside the building. 

The inside is blissfully dark and cool. Like all schools everywhere, he supposes, off white and tiled in some ancient, unreadable beige pattern. His breathing slows as he makes his way down the hall, past the offices and towards the library. He’s fine, he assures himself. He shakes out his hands for good measure, which makes him feel even better, because it makes him suddenly aware of the ring. He has a reason to be here. A good reason. He’s a good person. 

He traces the shape of the ring with his other hand; the stone is still cool and the shape comforting to his fingers. As he steps into the library he breathes a sigh of relief.

She’s meeting someone here, and it won’t be in the library.

The library is tucked away in a remote corner, small and understocked. A few wonky desks. A few ancient, boxy computers from possibly the 1980s. Credence keeps hoping some merciful businessman will die and leave the school a few thousand dollars but it seems like that just doesn't happen as much nowadays. 

There's a scanner, which he has no idea how to use. Someone has written out instructions on a neon green piece of copy paper; he peers at it, trying to absorb information from the extravagantly loopy writing.

He reads the paper 3 or 4 times and then logs onto one of the computers. Even so, he still has to ask the student behind the desk to help him scan the first few pages in. He can barely make eye contact with her; he senses she feels like he should know better. It’s a laborious process. The scanner drones on as it scans each page as though it has to calculate every single pixel by hand. Which… now that he thinks about it, it probably does. Still though, it takes the better part of an hour to scan the journal’s pages in. By then his brain feels dull and heavy, and when he thinks about how he’ll have to try to edit each page individually, using software he has no idea how to use, he just lays his head on the desk in defeat.

“Havin’ some trouble there?” says a voice behind him.

He turns to gratefully thank the student assistant, when he realizes that it’s not the student assistant.

“Hi, Credence,” Nagini says.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. It's just taken me a long time to write this chapter, but I'm still interested in this story. This is very unbetaed so pls let me know if something is unclear.


	5. A Shifting Reef

His mouth opens, but he cannot speak. He looks at her face, tries to fake nonrecognition and fails miserably. He wishes he could just sprint out of the room, out of the building and out of the state. The sheer terror of having to see her expression of confusion, possibly of hurt, keeps him rooted in his chair.

Nagini watches him stumble over his greeting, and then over his chair as he attempts to stand up out of politeness. She doesn't look concerned, however.

Credence, despairing, offers her his hand to shake.

She looks first at his hand and then at his face. For a horrible moment, he’s afraid she’ll leave him hanging, and he begins lowering his hand in anticipation.

With a sudden giggle she lunges forward and hugs him.

It knocks the breath from his lungs.

It's not a lingering hug by any means. It’s over before he even has time to be surprised by it. He’ll think about it later, but for now…

“It’s been so long.” she says.

“It has,” Credence says finally. Nagini’s voice seems unnaturally loud in the muffled confines of the library.

The student at the desk shoots them a glare. Credence glances nervously in her direction. Nagini is probably one of those people who can’t read body language because he’s sure that his posture is screaming “Trapped! Trapped! Trapped!”

“Uh, Nagini…” he begins.

“Oh!” she says, more quietly but still a little too loud. “I haven’t heard that name in a while. People mostly call me Gina nowadays.”

“Gina,” he says, testing out the name on his tongue. “Could we… catch up outside maybe?”

He looks again at the irked student for emphasis and then quickly sits down to finish up and save everything to a flash drive.

“Oh, gosh! Sorry! I’ll wait here until you’re done then,” Nagini says in a stage whisper.

Oh God.

Nagini-- Gina? wanders idly around the library, and Credence frantically tries to formulate a plan for escape. He comes up blank. He’s never been any good at lying anyway.

His mind flits to the next problem. 

What if… she wants to talk about things? What if she asks him about his life? What if she’s married?

What if she asks about his family?

A very gentle hand touches his shoulder.

“Hey,” Nagini says, and this time her voice is just barely loud enough to hear.

It’s just the slightest pressure, but suddenly it’s all he can focus on. He realizes he’s been staring absently at the screen, unmoving.

He breathes. His brain seems to be full of static.

“Do you need to save these?” she asks him.

“Uh huh.” His lips are numb somehow.

“Onto a flash drive?”

“Yeah.” His voice is barely an exhaled breath. He hopes she can hear him.

“Can I?”

She reaches to take the mouse and he lets her save it for him. She even ejects the thumb drive, which, Credence remembers behind the static, is important to protect the data. Or something.

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” she says soothingly, and he definitely can’t look at her, because he hears the pity in her voice. He tries to push away the desire for hot tears somewhere else, and it works, kind of.

He sees out of his own eyes from a deep place, and everything gets quieter, except, oddly, the frantic pounding of his heart and the tingling in his fingers.

Nagini’s hand seems far away. Credence lets her lead him out of the library. Like an invalid, he thinks, brain echoing with the emptiness of emotion. Every thought seems to fade in and out, letters typed on a projector screen that he reads in monotone.

“You doing ok?” Nagini asks; her presence burns bright against the cold.

“Of course,” he means to say, but it comes out more like a rasp. As though it’s been ages since he’s spoken to another person. Which it has, he admits.

He seems to catch fire as Nagini, (no… _Gina)_ searches his eyes.

“Do you wanna go for a walk?” she asks.

He nods.

He has no idea what’s happening. The sudden swell of feelings blossoming like cold blue fire in his chest.

She takes his hand, the hand with the ring, and leads him outside.

The campus is relatively bright and clean, but seems to be cut out of the local woods. 

There are a few paths, somewhat frequented in the summer, places where the local teens go to … not that he would know anything about that.

Strangely, her grip is gentle. Her fingers grasp his loosely, not at all the way childish fingers once held it, strong and sure.

Her hands seem much smaller.

Credence shudders as the humid air hits his skin. It reminds him of how hard it is to breathe. Nagini takes it in stride.

He sighs, out of reflex, as though breathing out will purge the air of water.

He follows Nagini as she guides him to the pathway that circles the school.

It triggers some sort of memory again but it can’t shake him from the blankness.

Their footsteps on the pavement, the crunch of fallen tree fruit, his open mouthed-breathing. He tries to lean into the sensations.

He’s holding hands with a girl, for fuck’s sake.

But her hand is small and sweaty and cold and it's not romantic at all. She looks scared. The smile she gives him is nervous.

He wants to run away and hide.

He wants to dissolve into foam.

Nagini motions for them to sit on a bench and begins a conversation with a nonchalance that even he can see through.

“It’s uh… sure been a while, huh?” She’s speaking very quickly, bright and bubbly. “Been keeping yourself busy?”

Credence finds his voice from where it’s been hiding deep in his chest.

“Just… working mostly.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

The question hangs in the air between them. Various joke responses come to mind, but none of them are funny. They’re all just uncomfortable and he knows it.

Nagini lets the silence sit for about a minute before she says, “I just got back from Europe.”

She pours words into the emptiness.

“Just… you know… a study abroad program. I spent some time in Seoul before that! Korea, I mean. The capital. I thought, maybe that I wanted to go into fashion or journalism or like, you know, a combo between them or maybe, like, art restoration. So, I just… I did a lot of internships and stuff.”

Credence is staring at a nearby leaf, tracing the shape of the veins with his eyes. A beetle walks across it, its shell n iridescent flash as it ambles along.

He can feel her staring at him. His mouth wants to form words like, “and your boyfriend?” or “Is there… someone?” or even, most horribly, “do you have a partner?” because what if shes not even interested in… but that’s even stupider. As if he’d even have a chance if she wasn’t… as if he even deserved to hope.

“And so that’s why I thought I’d come back and visit the old neighborhood,” she finishes.

He’s missed a large chunk of what she’s been saying but his fingers no longer feel numb and his body is less stiff.

“That’s amazing,” he says softly, and ventures a look at her face.

She’s still very concerned and still very pretty.

Credence attempts a smile, which makes her expression grow even more worried.

“I uh… I’m a clerk at the sheriff's office,” he says, which isn’t all that big of a lie. It’s not that his job is shameful. It’s just… creepy. He somehow can’t bear the thought of her finding him creepy. Or more creepy, he thinks gloomily, if she doesn’t think it already.

“That’s cool!” she says. There’s another pause. He guesses she’s waiting for him to elaborate.

“And,” she says, after another moment. “Is there… do you…?” He watches her eyes move from his face to his hand, with some sort of implied meaning.

“When did… I mean, congratulations,” she says. Credence stares at her, unable to figure out what she’s talking about, unable to puzzle out her expression. Is that pity? It seems like pity. He glances down at his hand for another clue.

“Oh! The ring you mean?” he says abruptly and then, very hurriedly,” No, no, no I’m not! There’s no one like that.”

Her expression relaxes and Credence understands. He would feel sorry for his imaginary wife too, if she had to deal with his weird bullshit all the time.

“Are you--” he ventures, relieved to find an opening. 

Nagini laughs. 

“No, I’m not married. That shit’s such a drag. Unless,” she adds thoughtfully,” Maybe if he was rich --- but nah.”

This is almost approaching normal conversation, which is good. He keeps it going.

“Are you in town long?” he asks.

Nagini shrugs.

“My next project isn't for a couple of months so I’m gonna chill out at my auntie’s until then.”

Credence still has no idea what she does, and he can’t fess up to zoning out. He just hopes she’ll eventually mention something by way of explanation.

“Credence,” Nagini says. She touches his arm gingerly, as though she thinks he might flinch away from her. He doesn’t. It's not really all that exciting. It’s oddly mundane and… nice. Not sexually charged or meaningful. Just nice.

He wonders if he can ask for a hug when they go their separate ways, but deep down he knows the sick feeling in his stomach won’t allow it.

“Credence,” she says again and oh god, he’s missed something else.

“I’m so sorry,” he says automatically.”

“It’s ok. I said I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow?

“Tomorrow,” he says. He walks away briskly. He doesn’t want to be rude. He’s happy, he thinks, or he should be. His brain is full of buzzing noises, only permeated by the ever-present echo of “Away! Away! Away!” 

He’s done his best.

He’s done his best.

Credence shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and feels the flashdrive. His fingers curl around it. Nagini must have given it to him at some point, but he can’t really remember when it was. In the other pocket, he can feel the shape of the journal.

Right.

Right.

He has a mission. He can worry about this later. 

Something crinkles as he moves, and he takes the journal out, worried he’s damaged it. It’s another piece of paper, not from the journal at all.

There’s something written on it.

A series of numbers.

_Text me!_

His heart does a sudden, sideways jerk, and he shoves journal and paper back in his pocket.

He’ll think about this later, he says to himself. 

Later. 

The ring is still cold on his finger. 


End file.
